


Acidimia

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcshep_match, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-15
Updated: 2007-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acidimia

John notices the smell before anything else – the acid bile-scent of a Wraith craft, the stench of sweat and human panic, the sickly sweet suggestion of blood. He keeps his eyes closed, catalogs what he can with his other senses before betraying that he's conscious – hears the distant clunk of sentry boots, the measured pacing of other Wraith close by. A cold hand comes to rest on the small of his back, a Wraith hand, the edges of its feeding apparatus uncomfortably sharp, and John realizes in a rush that he's naked from the waist up, tied down, utterly immobile, and it's all he can do to maintain the illusion of insensibility when his thoughts hurry madly toward a single end – _my team_.

He waits out the adrenaline rush – _you've done this before, Sheppard, breathe, just keep breathing_ – and his memories trickle back: PX8-947; an eerie suggestion of song on the breeze; the energy detector running haywire; his order that everyone head back to the gate. If he concentrates he can still feel the pinprick soreness of a tranquilizer dart, recall Rodney's stricken look as Ronon dragged him bodily through the gate, remember thinking _shit; goddamn worshippers_ before his world turned black.

The hand on his back withdraws, and he can't help the full body shiver of revulsion that rises in its place.

"Awake," someone says gruffly, and a hand grabs his hair, yanks his head upward. It's a reflex to open his eyes.

"You're strong," the male Wraith says, the point of his tongue curling around an incisor. "You will suit us."

John tries to shake his head free – can't help the instinct to get away, and his hands tug at the bindings that hold his arms by his sides. "Got a name?" he asks, and his lip stings, split and tender. "How 'bout I call you Jim?"

The Wraith growls at him, slams his head down against the unyielding surface John's tied to, and barks an order John barely understands. But he gets it in the next instant, when he feels a knife split his skin, cutting him open, too damn close to his spine. Every fiber of his being resists – his hands fist, his knuckles whiten, his muscles lock as he cries out in pain.

"An excellent runner," the Wraith says, amused, and John feels his voice shred and break as something cold and metal, alien and unwanted, is pushed past skin and muscle and bone to nestle in his back.

*****

 _Atlantis_

When Lorne comes back through the gate, reconnaissance team in his wake, his jaw is set – Rodney's never seen him look so calmly homicidal, and he's glad for it, the impulse toward vengeance he sees in the way Lorne cradles his gun.

"He's gone," Lorne says, his words tight and clipped, and Rodney takes back all his gratitude with such force he's surprised the entire contingent gathered on the gateroom floor doesn't suffer whiplash. "The worshippers talked. They were charged with finding Runners."

"Runners," Ronon says, no inflection to his voice, and Rodney wants to kick him in the shins for being so goddamn calm.

Lorne nods. "Seems the Wraith have time for . . . " He wets his lips as if to stall. "Recreation," he finishes. "And the worshippers? Only too happy to help 'em out."

"That's it, that's _it_ ," Rodney snaps. "We're going back there right this second, turn around, we need – "

"Rodney," Elizabeth says firmly. "Hold on. We don't know – "

"No point in going back," Ronon puts in. "He'll be on a hive ship by now. They'll be putting in a tracking device."

Rodney gives serious thought to throwing up his breakfast right there on the gateroom floor, and it's only Teyla's hand on his arm that prevents him from raining down an acid shower of hatred on those around him. "We don't leave people behind," he says, his words spilling out in a pleading rush, and his voice is a whole lot less steady than he wants it to be.

"And we're not planning on it now," Elizabeth says calmly. Rodney looks at her, realizes with a jolt of shame that she's as angry and panicked as the rest of them, and he wanders to the stairs, sits down and rests his head in his hands, glad when no one follows.

His mind is full of things he needs to put aside – waking up with John that morning, drowsily watching him yawn and stretch. It still, even now, has the power to make his mouth go dry, the plain, unvarnished improbability of the fact that he sleeps with John beside him, hogging the blankets, snoring from time to time. They'd kissed that morning – morning breath and all – full, lush, soft morning kisses that made them both smile and now, now John was . . .

Rodney presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to erase the mental image of the scars on Ronon's back. Hive ships – tracking hive ships . . . He forces himself to focus on that single train of thought, on the science he can wield to make this right, and he pulls in a breath, swallowing his fears as he stands again. The conversation's gone on without him, but no one's come up with a solution yet.

"How long did the procedure take?" Elizabeth asks Ronon.

"Not long. Let me recover for an hour or two. Loaded me into a dart and set me down."

Elizabeth nods. "So we'll give him twenty-four hours to make his way back and then . . ."

"Are you _crazy_?" Rodney asks.

Elizabeth raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"He'll have a _transmitter_ in his back, beaming his location to god knows how many Wraith in this galaxy," Rodney snaps. "There is absolutely no way he will risk leading them to Atlantis. We have to find him – he won't come here."

Teyla nods. "I agree, Doctor Weir. Colonel Sheppard will not do anything he believes might endanger us."

A muscle twitches in Elizabeth's jaw. "All right. Suggestions?" she asks tightly.

"I can run tests on Ronon's transmitter," Rodney says quickly. "No doubt they'll have changed the frequency in use by now, but there may be something that could act as a clue to new patterns, limit the parameters of our search."

"He will visit only those places he knows," Teyla adds. "Colonel Sheppard is aware of the prevalence of orbiting or buried gates – he will wish to avoid such places."

Ronon nods. "Skip places too cold, too warm. He won't have the equipment to survive that right away."

"So we'll pull up a list of every planet we've visited," Rodney says. "Strike planets with a gate in orbit or conditions that are too harsh for long-term survival."

"All right," Elizabeth says, nodding. "Major, your men have PX8-947 under surveillance?"

"Yes ma'am. Tracking gate addresses, communications. We've got things under control with the worshippers – it's safe for someone to look at the DHD, gather some intel on travel between gates."

"I'll send Zelenka." She nods her dismissal. "Let's get started. Report to me every four hours."

And Rodney's on his way to the transporter before anyone else can move.

*****

 _M38-897_

It's been two days and John has yet to see a Wraith. He should probably be thankful, but it feels like borrowed time, someone's attempt to lull him into a false sense of security. The incision on his back burns constantly and he's hungry enough that his vision's begun to swim. There's water here at least – a creek running between a stand of young saplings – and part of him yearns to curl up on the cool, green grass of the riverbank, press his cheek into the dirt and let them find him, end this amid the buzz of insects and the mustard-yellow pollen of wildflowers. But he only entertains the thought because it's an impossibility – because he's weathered interrogations in dusty Afghani cells; survived the withering scorn of superiors who wanted to see him fired; calls this galaxy home and won't surrender it to a host of gothic embarrassments in duster jackets and New Wave boots; because somewhere Rodney's working his fingers to the bone trying to get him back, and he can't return that affection by going home in a body bag. Wouldn't be fair.

The clothes the Wraith gave him are stuck to his body with sweat, chafing as he moves between the trees, listening for the telltale footfall of predators. But he hears only water, birdsong and the far-off laughter of children – an echo he thinks is some trick of his mind until he sees the dance of red and blue shirts on a clothesline in the distance. There's a village strung out across the foothills of this valley's looming mountain, and he knows enough about survival – about ejecting from his plane and waiting interminably for rescue – to recall the mechanics of theft, the necessary glibness of stealing. Caution is a pain down the length of his spine as he crouches, waits, seizes opportunity and forces the clumsy lock on the back door of a house. Things are quiet inside, sweet-smelling and clean, and for a moment he's disoriented by the strangest memory – his clean shirts mixed up with Rodney's; pulling on clothes to head out for a run while Rodney watches, drowsy and heavy-lidded, sprawled comfortable and reckless in their shared, narrow bed.

He swallows, pulls in a breath to clear the yearning from his body, and makes a first pass through the empty house. There's bread in the kitchen, tough smoked meat and fruit he doesn't recognize but takes a little of anyway. He takes a carving knife, slips a smaller blade into his boot, steps into a bedroom to pull a shirt and pants from a wooden chest. On the crude, makeshift dresser is a hand mirror, and he turns it between his fingers, thinks of Atlantis, wraps it in the shirt and takes it too.

There's a coarse woolen jacket on a peg by the door and he takes it thankfully, stuffs his wares into a sackcloth bag. He isn't seen and he doesn't wish to be; melts back into the forest before anyone can think to wonder what spirit's moved among them. There are no spirits now that John believes in, kneeling by the creek and washing his borrowed blade. He pulls off his shirt, angles the mirror he stole to better see the violence done to his back, and with a stick held hard between his teeth, cuts into his own flesh in a desperate attempt to become fit to go home.

She finds him as darkness falls, a young woman with heavy skirts and cool hands, her expression shocked as she coaxes his fingers to give up their grip on the knife. As he watches, nauseous, trembling with shock, she pats her pockets, looks around, takes his bloodied shirt and wets it in the creek.

"Runner," he manages, wanting to warn her.

"I know," she whispers, cleaning his wounds, seeming to know as well as he does that no amateur hand can pull the transmitter from his back. "You're not the first."

*****

 _Atlantis_

Rodney isn't sleeping. It's been four full days, and he's napped from time to time at his desk, at his lab bench, even once amid the remnants of a picked over meal in the mess – but he isn't sleeping, hasn't gone back to their quarters for more than a perfunctory shower and a change of clothes since John disappeared. It's almost 3 am, and two computers hum productively to his left, searching for communications in some peculiar parody of SETI, trying to discern coherent sound from the music of interstellar dust. On the laptop in front of him is a roster of missions John's undertaken – planets visited, already peppered with Ronon and Teyla's remarks. They're narrowing the search field, sending out a tentative scattering of rescue teams in the morning, but at this hour, in this lab, it feels like a hopeless shot in the dark. Rodney scrubs a hand over his face, wishes for some way to simply let John know they're looking. He's never had much use for faith, but could use a little now.

Someone clears their throat from the lab's main doorway, and Rodney looks up to see Teyla watching him with a smile. "Still working?" she asks.

Rodney nods. "I was just – the planet roster."

Teyla tilts her head. "It is late," she offers, chiding gently.

"Or early."

"Perhaps both?"

Rodney blinks, frowning. His thoughts are sluggish and he has the sense that he's being maneuvered somehow, but he doesn't know to what end. "I suppose."

"You should sleep."

Obstinacy rises up inside him, a familiar, bitter comfort. His mouth settles into a thin line as he shakes his head. "I'm fine."

"No, you are not." Teyla moves across the room with her regular grace, familiar even at this hour. "You are exhausted."

He looks down at his keyboard, types in a command. "Yes, well."

"Rodney."

And it isn't Teyla he's angry at, but there's a fury coiled inside him that's begging for release and it rushes to the surface of his skin as though called into being by the tone of her voice. "Do you think _he's_ resting?" he asks. "Curled up in some nice safe bed somewhere, warm enough, catching forty winks? You think the _Wraith_ are giving him chance to heal before they start hunting?" He clamps his mouth shut, lips twisting.

"I think that John needs your mind working at its sharpest, that – "

Rodney blinks. "And what? I'm shirking?" Even the vaguest implication of such a thing makes his stomach turn.

Teyla shakes her head. "Of course not."

"Then what?"

"Fatigue makes us slow, ill-tempered, and forgetful. After a few hours of rest you may see what you cannot now."

Rodney feels his eyes prickle and he looks away, checks the readouts on the subspace scans. "I'm fine," he offers weakly.

Teyla sets her hand on his arm. "Ronon and I have each prepared a bedroll in our quarters."

Rodney blinks at her, confused. "Why?"

"Because I cannot imagine it easy to sleep alone in a bed you have shared."

It takes a second for Rodney to remember how to swallow past the hot, tight ball of misery lodged in his throat. "Well, I – that's . . ."

"Come. I will walk with you. If you would prefer your own room, no one will take offense."

"I think – I think . . . "

Teyla tilts her head. "I believe Ronon could also be persuaded to sleep close by. He is restless."

Rodney nods. "And it's – not stupid to . . ."

She smiles. "We are a team."

Rodney manages to crook one corner of his mouth into what feels like a weak, wistful smile. "Yeah," he whispers, and wishes there were a command he could issue, a series of keys he could strike that would shut down his heartache as surely as he can put his laptops to sleep.

*****

 _M82-TX7_

The scream of darts tearing overhead wakes John on the seventh day, merging for one long, jarring moment with the livid guilt that curls through his dreams. He blinks, trying to shake off his body's desperate need for more sleep; reaches for his knife and orients himself. This is his seventh morning, not his second night. His back is healing, not newly torn; the darts have come for him this time, not for those who might help him with medicine and food. There is no village nearby, no population to be punished – he's made sure of it, pushed himself beyond the limits of his energy to find this rocky overhang, this inhospitable cliff. Unsteady, he moves to squint into the sun, to watch the darts set down the Wraith who hunt him. He can't run – his body won't hold – so he has to fight, relying on instinct, damned if he'll die.

He fights, and barely remembers his actions when he looks at the bodies crumpled at his feet. He fights, and as the adrenaline fades, he falls to his knees, throws up bile and saliva, clutches convulsively at the stunner in his hand. His shirt is sticky with red blood and black, his breath unsteady, one fingernail torn. Afghanistan washes across his memory with a burn of yellow-gold dust, and with shaking hands he slits the throat of every Wraith as insurance, curls into himself five feet from their end and closes his eyes, surrenders to necessary oblivion, trying to ignore the remembered pitch of screams.

*****

 _Atlantis_

"The chance that we will just _happen_ to end up on any given planet at the same time as Colonel Sheppard is roughly 137 to 1," Rodney says, exasperated. "And there's nothing to say that once we're on that planet we can actually find him. No matter how many Marines we send through the gate, the chances we can scope out every possible hiding spot on the planet are slim to none. We may be able to gather some stray intelligence if he visits a planet that's heavily populated, but lifesigns detectors will be next to useless if there are more than five people around. Plus there's no guarantee that the Colonel will visit every planet in turn. Certainly he could retrace his steps and set up base somewhere, or revisit one planet multiple times."

"So . . ." Carson looks pale and worried. "It's hopeless?"

"Of course not!" Rodney twists in his chair to stare across the conference room table with incredulity. "I'm simply saying a) we need to crack the frequency that the Wraith are using for Runner transmitters, and b) we need to do all we can to help him survive in the interim."

Elizabeth frowns. "And how do we do that if we don't know where he is?"

"We guess," Ronon offers.

Elizabeth tilts her head. "Guess?"

Rodney taps at his laptop, sending a new schematic to the display at the table's head. He focuses his attention on the data rather than the trembling in his hands, the emptiness in his gut. "We believe we have a solid list of planets on which Colonel Sheppard is likely to seek refuge – or at least use as a way station for travel," he explains as the planets pop up on a galaxy map. His voice sounds steady. "So we plant supplies. First aid, water, blankets, whatever easily transportable food we can spare."

"On 137 planets?" Elizabeth asks.

"Yes?"

Carson clears his throat. "But if we can't possibly guess all the hiding spots Colonel Sheppard might use, how can we guess where to leave supplies?"

"Ronon and I are extremely familiar with the planets in question," Teyla offers. "We can make educated guesses about the most likely places in which someone might seek shelter."

"Plus he can't afford to get cut off from the gate," Ronon adds. "He'll only go so far beyond it. You learn that fast."

Elizabeth tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Ronon, it's only been two weeks . . ."

"Only?" Rodney repeats bitterly. He suddenly feels very tired.

"Can we really assume he's thinking as you did?" Elizabeth finishes.

Ronon's expression doesn't change. "He's been thinking that way since day one. No choice."

Elizabeth taps the desk with her pencil and nods. "All right." She lets out a long breath. "Major, how are things from a personnel perspective?"

"Good. Off-world teams are working in rotation, and we have several allies keeping their eyes and ears open for any word."

"No intelligence yet?"

Lorne shakes his head. "None. But I'd rather we were hearing nothing than chasing phantom sightings."

Rodney almost disagrees – almost wants the flare of hope that would come with rumor, no matter how tenuous or misplaced.

Elizabeth stares at her datapad. "And how long can we maintain a search and rescue commitment at this level?"

Rodney looks up. "What?"

"There comes a point where committing the energies of our staff and our resources to a long-term rescue mission is inefficient," she says calmly. "I have to know what that point is."

Rodney stares at her, heart in his throat. "You can't be serious."

"I'm not doubting John's ability to beg, borrow, steal, or fight for his life, Rodney. But I am doubting this expedition's ability to continue an indefinite search." She closes her briefing folder. "We gave up on Ford. At some point we'll have to give up on the Colonel. I hope it doesn't come to that, but I need to know where we draw the line."

Rodney continues to stare. "Elizabeth – "

"We're fine," Lorne interjects. "And frankly, I wouldn't want to tell any of the personnel that this is a limited venture."

Elizabeth nods tightly. "Still. I want long-term logistics taken into account – trade ventures, routine operations. I'll need reports from all of you by Wednesday morning – schedules, drop sites, and a deadline for scaling back our search." She stands. "I'm sorry to be the cold voice of reason here – I want John back as much as anyone. But the long-term safety and survival of this mission can't be set aside forever." Her shoulders are stiff with responsibility as she walks away.

Rodney blinks, numbed by the horrifying possibility she's offered. "She can't be – "

Ronon reaches over and claps a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find him."

"Aye, lad. Soon," Carson puts in.

Rodney blinks at the folder in front of him, not really seeing it. "But – "

Teyla stands. "Doctor McKay, perhaps we might see what it is possible to fit into one of the available backpacks."

Rodney swallows, forces himself to pull his thoughts back from the unfathomable idea of John dying before he can be found. "Right. Right, of course. We can send out teams and – "

"Come down to the infirmary this afternoon and I'll have the first set of first-aid kits ready," offers Carson.

"Thank you," Rodney says, gathering up all his stuff. "Thank you, I mean – I . . . backpacks, yes." And he hurries from the room, Ronon at his six, Teyla by his side, brain clouded with worry. His hands are empty of anything for which he cares.

******

 _P67-249_

John steals paper as well as food, because without it he may well lose his mind. Logistics swim through his head – planets visited, allies made, communities with shields, worlds too inhospitable to support him – and worn down by evasion, he can no longer hold everything in any coherent order. He sits with his back against a tree, someone's missing pencil nub between his fingers, and sketches out the galaxy as he thinks he remembers it. Darts can use gates but belong to a Hive – his best hope of stealing time from the Wraith's grasping hands is to crisscross the galaxy, forcing them into needless flight. He scribbles addresses – twice now his hand has frozen over the DHD, forgetting the combination of symbols he needs to flee, a parody of a lost PIN or social security number, evading recall when needed most. The paper crumples beneath his sweating hands, pressed against his thigh; the pencil nub slips and he swears, swatting irritably at persistent flies.

He's losing track of days – this is day twenty, or maybe twenty-one – and he can't remember the letters and numbers he'd use to tell Atlantis to self-destruct. His mind is a weapon as much as the knife at his belt or the stunner by his side but it's failing him by inches, worn down by too little food, too little sleep, adrenaline like a necessary drug to kick it into gear, synapses sluggish without fear to make them spark. Ronon ran for seven years but John judges himself to be soft in comparison, and it's doubt that makes his muscles burn as much as it's fatigue – doubt that he wants this enough, survival clawed from theft and anger, years ahead to dodge and weave as he waits for his team to track him down.

 _Atlantis_. The thought's like a gut-punch and his stomach rolls 'til he wills it steady. He's thought of going home, knows Carson could remove the device, knows they could turn and defend themselves if and when the Wraith would come. But he's seen his team watch the skies before, his people evacuated, his city rocked by fire, and he's watched Rodney work himself into exhaustion, fueled by uppers, trying to keep them alive. He's not so selfish as to take this fight to them. This is not their sacrifice, not their war.

But it's war for others by his making. He never lingers now to know the fate of the towns and villages he leaves behind and it's possible, probable, he's losing more than pounds from his frame and hours of needed rest. He folds his paper and stuffs it in his bag, stows the pencil nub, cinches the sackcloth and pushes himself to his feet. _Get a goddamn grip, Sheppard_ he tells himself, pushing a path through dense, stubborn undergrowth, all too aware he's a bug with a pin through his belly, ethics a violence done to him, slicing through his gut and pressing him to a velvet board, a showpiece in a glass case, gazed upon by Wraith.

*****

 _Atlantis_

When word comes – week six – from the Suumiits that John's been spotted at the outskirts of the Na'asish swamps, Elizabeth orders an off-world team through the gate so fast Rodney's left dizzy.

"I should be with them," he says desperately, fingers curled around the balcony railing high above the gateroom floor, watching Lorne and his Marines, Teyla, Ronon, step through the event horizon and wink out of sight.

"I agree," Elizabeth says, and she joins him, arms folded protectively across her chest. "But Rodney – I can't let you go while you're like this."

He hates her in that moment – hates her so purely and completely that he'd swear, if asked, that it's cruelty running through her veins, not blood. But the moment passes and he knows she's right, knows his clothes hang on his frame, that the shadows beneath his eyes have become so pronounced as to convict him each time he looks in a mirror. He works still – works and does little else; works with a vigor that keeps him upright and moving through this ongoing, ceaseless, fucked-up nightmare; works at tracking John and works at sustaining Atlantis, letting neither task slip lest his fumbling become cause for the search to end, lest the desalination tanks become reason to abandon John to seven years of Ronon's misery, lest the fluctuating power levels on level nine become a rationale for cutting him loose.

"He's coming home," he says stiffly, and waits on the balcony even after Elizabeth goes back to her office, feels his heart lurch when the gate's dialed in, feels it sink and shatter when John doesn't step through.

"Missed him," Lorne reports, jaw tight, standing as though disappointment dusts the soles of his boots.

"I am sorry, Rodney," Teyla says gently. "But at least we know he is alive."

Rodney rubs his forehead and nods, meets her gaze, then Ronon's. "I was – maybe we could . . . go eat?" The words feel so insubstantial, incongruous and weak as they drop from his mouth.

"I would be glad to join you," Teyla smiles, and Ronon lunges as if he means to sweep him up in one of his insufferable hugs. But in the end it's a feint, and Ronon claps him on the shoulder, steers him toward the transporter door.

"Food's good," Ronon offers.

Rodney nods. They're not going out without him again. "Yeah," he says. It's a means to an end like everything else.

*****

 _P99-126_

John's never seen a storm like it. He stumbles blindly, touch more useful to him than sight in such ceaseless rain, his retinas burning with every flash of lightning, the darkness afterward deeper and more impenetrable than before. There are caves here – he remembers them, thinks he struck out from the gate in the right direction when the storm was still only a threat, a gust of wind at his back and an ominous bank of clouds overhead. He's soaked to the skin, could shout out his deepest secrets and never hear them in this rolling pit of a storm, and when he finds the caves he's looking for it's because he trips, falls face-first into dust and ashes, tearing his pants and gashing his knee on rocks he can't see.

There's a beauty to the terrible violence unfolding around him – to the crashing thunder and pounding rain. He's merely sport and none will hunt in this – no Wraith will risk their dart or their pretty leather boots in a storm that could knock them from the sky like an idle hand swatting at mosquitoes. John sinks to the floor, back against rough stone. He's cold and injured and the rock-burn on his arm throbs an angry beat, but he's safe for the first time in far too long.

Gathering himself – he can't fall asleep without doing what he can to eat, to warm himself, to dry these clothes – he pulls a temperamental flashlight from his pocket, smacks it against his palm in a ritual he's come to believe makes it work. A feeble, flickering beam illuminates the wall across from him, and John scans the cave, thankful to find he's alone in its shelter, not sharing it with beasts and bats and god knows what else – fugitives, criminals, corpses, traps.

At first he thinks he's seeing things when the flashlight shows him a half-familiar bundle at the rear of the cave. He pulls the beam back, looks again, stares and rubs at his eyes with his one free hand. There's a backpack – a solid, squat shape against the furthest wall, and John watches for a long, cautious moment before he convinces himself to crawl over and confirm it's there with touch.

It's a Lantean backpack, patches ripped off, but he knows the construction, feels gratitude sting the back of his throat as he fumbles with the zipper to see what's inside. His breathing grows unsteady as he finds a blanket, medical supplies, water, food – he fumbles with the cap on the Tylenol bottle and knocks back three; rips open a powerbar with his teeth and chews it quickly, swallowing fast. It's more than bare sustenance or a palliative for his wounds – it's confirmation that people are looking for him, stacking the odds, urging him to survive, and relief tastes as good as the powerbar, as sweet as the water he sips from the canteen.

There's a shirt in the backpack, and John strips out of his borrowed shift, pulls the soft, familiar, fabric over his head. He shakes out the blanket, wraps it around his shoulders, and he swears for a second it smells of Rodney, a scent so familiar, so missed, so longed-for that he grits his teeth, leans his head back against the wall and allows himself one brief moment of loneliness to blister his lungs before he bends his head to the pack again.

He checks and rechecks the supplies he's been given, takes the spoils of his survival and fits them into the pack. He's almost done when he checks a side pocket, finds a folded piece of paper, opens it and reads, 'no one expects the Spanish Inquisition.' He laughs helplessly, smoothes the paper with his fingers. This is Rodney's handwriting, Rodney's note, Rodney's attempt to say 'I'm looking, I swear.' John pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, remembers movies in his quarters and both of them laughing until Rodney nearly cried. "Spam, spam, chips and spam," he whispers to himself and falls asleep with his head on the backpack, the blanket around his shoulders, and the note crumpled tight in his hand.

*****

 _Atlantis_

After all the nights Rodney's spent in vigil at his computer, he finds it deeply ironic that his laptop breaks the transmission code used to track Runners at ten-fucking-seventeen in the morning, nine weeks and three days since John was snatched.

"Are you _shitting_ me?" he asks the screen, staring at the blinking spill of numbers. "Now? Daylight? This is when you decide to – "

Radek breaks in. "Rodney – it is the frequency, yes? We can track – "

Rodney looks over at him and it takes a full ten seconds for him to realize what he means. "Fuck! We can – _yes_ we can track, we can – " His fingers fly over the keyboard and he waits impatiently for the schematics to pop up, Radek leaning over his shoulder. "Six," he says as the planets appear on his screen. "Six. We need six teams." He hits his radio. "Elizabeth – we have it. We have the frequency. We need six teams now."

"You've got it," Elizabeth replies, and Rodney slams his laptop shut and is running for the transporter before another word's said.

*****

 _P88-241_

Either it's a slow day up on Hive Ship Number One or the Wraith are pissed that he's surviving, John thinks. That works out okay since he's pretty pissed himself – goddamn _pissed off_ that these life-sucking assholes just keep coming when god, you'd think they'd learn that he's armed and dangerous and pretty fucking good with a knife. Course that's probably why they're bringing out the big guns – literally – and it's likely not a rational response to keep going back toward the people who are shooting at you, but he's _pissed_ , and by god, he's tired of this shit, and sick of Running, and the only pleasure he can access anymore is the satisfaction of offing one of these bastards and he'll take it, sticky and blood-stained and run through with fear though it is, because at least the death he smells on his hands isn't his own.

He's learned how they fight, these hunter-Wraith, the particular arc and sweep of their bodies, the martial art of their bloodied craft. The defense that comes most easily to him is more graceful than they deserve, honed at Teyla's instruction, an Athosian dance to meet their blows and it's Ronon's strength he channels into hating them, into staying alive out of the spite and affection that run in his blood. He can't think of Rodney as he plunges his knife to the hilt into sinew and splintering bone, but he can live for him – live for Rodney and to kill for himself. The stunner helps – it's not only knife work that keeps him alive – and anger, isolation, longing fuel his fury. He knows how to read Wraith hidden by foliage, in the settling of dust and the twist of a breeze, and he leaves none living when he heads to the gate.

He hopes for a storm on the other side – for the howling respite of high winds and rain.

*****

 _Atlantis_

"First thing you do – jam the signal," Rodney instructs. There are five teams in addition to his own gathered in the jumper bay, a scientist standing with each set of Marines. "The protocol's already loaded into your data tablet, the jamming device is on your jumper – before you do anything else, jam that signal. We need him off their radar."

"Secure the gate," Lorne adds. "No one else gets through until we're sure we have the Colonel, understood?"

A chorus of "Sir!"s rises up in acknowledgement.

"Maintain communication with us here at base," Elizabeth puts in. "Thirty second transmissions – we'll coordinate teams to a rendezvous point once we've narrowed our search. Anything else?" Lorne shakes his head; Rodney twitches with tension. "Good luck. Bring him home." And finally – _finally_ , Rodney thinks, heart beating rapidly, his breath coming fast – they're on their way.

P82-229 is desolate, dusty, all but abandoned and bleached white with heat. "There," Rodney says, gesturing to the HUD display where a cluster of lifesigns move close to one another then away, darting left and right in one contained spot. "Jamming the frequency." He types out his commands, looks up and grits his teeth. "Does this thing go any faster?" he snaps.

Foster merely throws him a look.

"We are close," Teyla says reassuringly.

"And it might not be him," Ronon offers, setting his gun to 'kill' and moving to the 'jumper's rear.

"We have a one in six chance!" Rodney points out as the 'jumper skims low, cloaked against the watchful eyes of Runner and Wraith both.

"Put us down," Ronon says to Foster. He has no authority to make it an order, but Foster obeys, landing gently and releasing the hatch. Ronon cocks his gun. "Score to settle," he says evenly, and in a moment, he's gone – Teyla follows; Rodney next. Sunlight spills in their wake.

*****

For his part, John pauses when he hears new footsteps – these aren't Wraith weaving closer; the footfalls are lighter (not the tread of drones) but uneven (no familiarity with the terrain). He moves almost silently until his back's against the rock that makes mountains and caves in these inhospitable parts; raises his gun and watches, waiting. Something smells different, feels different, and his hackles rise in skittish response. Pebbles skitter off to his left and he lets loose a shot, hears the yelp of someone injured. It isn't a Wraith voice – he wipes his forehead on his sleeve and backs into the cave. His needs water; his pulse is hammering. There's no time, no time at all.

*****

"Rodney!?"

"I tripped!" His skin burns hot with embarrassment as he dusts off his pants. "I'm fine. I'm fine." _Just foolish_ , he thinks, and lifts his gun again, trying to avoid Teyla's eye. _Not meant to be a soldier_ he breathes, glancing quickly around a listing wall's edge. _This is all so fucked up, so very fucked up, and god –_

"Rodney." It's Elizabeth's voice.

Rodney fumbles his radio. "Yes?" His voice feels borrowed, ill-fitting and new.

"We've found him. P79-231."

"Oh my god." He looks up at Teyla. "Oh my god, is he – "

"We must go," Teyla says and herds him back toward the 'jumper.

Elizabeth's still talking, but Rodney's mind's blank – he's operating on instinct and nothing more. He's been waiting for this, living for it, striving toward it since the moment he tumbled through a gate and John got left behind, but now that it's here, he's baffled and confused. He turns his head as Ronon jogs to catch up with them – there's a boy slung carelessly over his shoulder. "Seventeen, at most," he grits out, striding into the 'jumper and laying him down on the narrow back bench. Rodney stares into the young man's face, his cuts and bruises, the pallor of his skin that speaks of starvation, then snaps to attention and walks back to his seat.

"Dialing," he calls out. The rear hatch closes and the engines hum.

Teyla closes a hand on Rodney's arm. "We are close," she whispers. Rodney simply nods.

*****

John can hear them talking. In the furthest reaches of his mind something whispers _Earth_ , but it's been so long since he heard conversation he can't remember how it feels to hear his native tongue; can't remember if the absence of pressure in his head means home or translation technology – which is which? He stays back among the shadows, doesn't respond when they call his name. The Wraith know how to twist their tongues around _Sheppard_ by now. The word means nothing. He can't trust a voice that –

"John?"

He sucks in a breath, holds his silence.

"John?"

And then he sees him. "Get out," he rasps.

*****

Rodney takes a shaky step forward, tries not to react when John takes another step back. God, he looks like shit – like the most fucked up, restless, beautiful creature Rodney's ever seen. "John – "

"Get _out_ of here!" John yells.

"Would you get a grip?" Rodney yells back, so frustrated that he forgets that fear's had a choke-hold on him now for nearly three months. "I jammed the signal, you paranoid freak! What – you think I'd just waltz on in here after everything you've done to try and keep them off our tail? _I jammed the goddamn signal_."

John's backed up against the wall and his shoulders are hunched. He has every appearance of preparing to flee, but his eyes flicker quickly to Rodney and away.

Rodney's never seen him look so scared or so hopeful. "Give us a second," he says quietly, and though he's not looking at anyone but John, isn't sure John even realizes there are others nearby, he hears the Marines behind him begin to withdraw. After a while the only breathing he can hear is his and John's, and he stretches out a hand, palm turned outward, fingers spread. He takes a step forward. "Okay?"

There's a muscle working in John's cheek, and he still looks hunted. "You jammed it?"

"Yeah." Rodney kept moving closer. "Carson's right outside. He can remove the device in minutes. Anesthetic. It won't hurt."

"I don't care if it – " John seems to fight with himself, to swallow other words. He looks up, and Rodney can barely stand the expression on his face, the stripped-bare need.

"Yeah? Well I care," Rodney murmurs. "Enough." And he touches John's arm with his hand.

John moves so quickly Rodney's unprepared, but he holds his ground, doesn't stagger back despite the force with which John grabs hold of him. He brings his hands up to John's back, holds onto him just as fiercely, turns his face so that his lips rest just above John's ear and whispers, "It's okay, you're coming home. You're coming home."

*****

He's tired. God he's so fucking tired. John can let himself feel it now that Rodney's close enough to bear his weight – allows himself to sag loose and broken, all resistance gone.

"I need to call Carson," Rodney murmurs, and he sounds just like John remembers – remembers in detail down to the cuticles on his fingernails, the way he tastes, the scent of his sweat.

"Radio," he manages. "No one else. Not until – "

"Okay, okay." Rodney lifts one hand from John's back to touch his earpiece, relays the instructions, slides his hand back.

"Sorry," John mutters, neck flushing hot, unwilling to pull away. "Just – gimme a second."

"If you try and act all heroic with me, I will _end_ you," Rodney whispers, and for the first time in weeks, John manages to laugh.

*****

The surgery takes barely any time, and with the transmitter crushed beneath the heel of Rodney's boot, Carson whispers something about antibiotics, slides a needle into John's arm and knocks him out cold.

Rodney's stunned at first, splutters and waves a hand in protest. "Are you mad?" he asks, incredulous. "What kind of a way is that to – "

"Do you really think he can handle Atlantis?" Carson asks.

Rodney blanches. "Physically?"

"No, lad. In every other way."

Rodney crouches and strokes his fingers through John's too-long hair, tries to imagine the view from the gateroom floor after nine weeks of absence, hunger, and fear. "No," he says softly. "No, I suppose not."

They stretcher him out, pausing only long enough to allow Teyla to touch John's arm, Ronon to curl a hand around his booted ankle, making their greetings to an unconscious friend. There's silence in the 'jumper as they fly back home, Rodney stealing glances from cockpit to rear, watching Carson hover and John's chest rise and fall.

John's hooked up to IVs the moment they land, and there are orders snapped as they rush him through the halls to the infirmary bay, sharp scissors cutting away his clothes, nimble fingers working to tug off his boots. When Carson says, "Molly, could you clean him up?" Rodney clears his throat, remembers he has powers of speech as well as motion, says, ". . . could I?" and Carson pauses; nods. Someone brings him water, washcloths and a towel, and the bay grows quiet as the med team slips away.

It's not the homecoming Rodney imagined for them both, not the way he'd thought to relearn John's body – but it serves, this reunion, this act of washing grime. Rodney's hands are gentle. It's no effort to move slowly, to be sure he cleans between every finger, beneath John's arms, in the crook of his elbows and the shadow of his hips. He touches places he's not sure he's ever touched, even in the most single-minded pursuit of pleasure – the divot at John's ankle, the outside of his knee – and washes dirt and blood (not all of it John's) from shoulder and collarbone, chest and wrist. He steeples John's legs, wipes the back of his calves; rolls him over very slightly, cleans the nape of his neck. With every careful movement of his hands he's laying claim, fending off torment and hunger and pain with his will, with his touch, and pressing a promise – _it's over_ – deep into John's skin.

But John's skin answers back in scars and bruises, in cuts that tell stories Rodney isn't sure he'll ever know. There's a badly healed bullet hole in John's left shoulder, and its imperfect edges suggest the effort it took to pull the bullet out. There are thin striations of scar tissue across John's belly – a fall perhaps, or worse yet, claws – and a mottled misery of broken blood vessels spidering possessively down his right side. He's missing the toenail on his left little toe, and there are new calluses on his heels, in the center of his palm, the place where Rodney's lips belong, where he brushes them now, naming him silently, pulling him back.

*****

When John wakes there's light all around him and his head doesn't hurt and he's warm and he's comfortable: nothing makes sense. His lips are dry – he wets them clumsily – but when he tries to summon up some sense of urgency, none will come. He shifts a hand and realizes there are sheets beneath his palm; rocks his head and feels a pillow behind it. Clearing his throat he blinks and glances down toward his feet, sees Rodney passed out face first in his blankets. "Oh shit," John mutters, and at that Rodney wakes.

"What? Is it – what time is . . . I have to – with the – " Rodney waves a hand, then seems to realize where he is. "Oh, hi," he says with his hair sticking up at mad angles and a blanket crease running down his cheek, grinning at John with such affection that John feels something pull in counterpoint inside his chest. He tries to find some sort of anchor, his thoughts spinning crazily like a tilt-a-whirl.

"I'm – this is . . . "

"Atlantis," Rodney says.

John closes his eyes for a second and reaches for Rodney's hand, squeezes it fiercely. "Home," he manages.

"Home," Rodney says, and he's moving now, pushing John's hair back from his face, and his lips brush John's temple. "Home, where you're planning to eat your Wheaties and talk to Kate without a single protest and do whatever it is that Carson says, Elizabeth too, so that you can get out of this place as quickly as possible and come back to _our_ bed because – because . . . " And his voice catches; John opens his eyes. Rodney's still smiling, but his eyes are bright.

"You look like crap, McKay," John says, offering a rusty smile.

"Yeah?" Rodney laughs weakly. "You can talk, with that beard."

"It's manly."

"It's Sasquatch."

John looks down and away with a sham, demure smile. "Aw shucks," he murmurs, and laughs again when Rodney gently punches his arm. It only occurs to him later to wonder how Rodney knew exactly where to touch him without causing hurt.

*****

For five days John's world is a hospital bed, a pitcher of water, and a mountain of toast. Rodney has Sergeant Lewis come down, work his magic with scissors and a comb, rescue John's usually reckless hair from the intrinsic tragedy of three months on the run. He shaves John himself, and every cell in his body hums with the luxury of it, the chance to tilt John's head, scrape his cheek, wipe away shaving foam, touch and touch again.

It's hard to give him time with others, to go away when Lorne visits or Elizabeth stops by. He does better when it's Teyla; does best when Ronon comes. There are things Ronon can say that no one else understands – experiences he and John share that Rodney will never be privy to. But he's grateful, pathetically grateful, for the fact that John looks less hunted with every conversation, that Ronon leaves him smiling, exhausted but whole.

The night of day five brings discharge and John's refusal to use a wheelchair. Rodney calls him an idiot; John snaps that he's not a goddamn invalid, thank you very much, and they bicker about it heatedly until the normalcy of the moment stops them cold. They shuffle, laugh sheepishly, exchange a couple more rounds of half-meant name-calling, walk to the transporter and go back to their room.

Rodney hates that it's awkward, but it is, horribly so. "I, uh – I didn't really come here much when you were – " He gestures to a room piled high with notebooks and DVDs, golf clubs and mission reports, three months old.

John nods, rubbing his jaw. "Hate to think you'd get tidy in my absence."

"Shut up." Rodney shuffles a stack of papers, kicks an errant sock under the bed.

John grins tiredly. "I need a shower. Clean shorts."

"Oh, right. Um – well, you know where everything is."

John looks wistfully around the room. "I do, don't I?" he says as though the thought's only just occurring to him.

Rodney nods, worrying his thumbnail with the fingers of his other hand.

"Okay. So – " John blinks and takes a breath. "Shower. I'll . . ."

And Rodney nods again, watches him wander into the bathroom, smacks himself in the forehead the moment John's back is turned.

It's amazing how quickly it's possible to tidy things into piles and hide empty MRE packets when you really put your mind to it. Rodney shoves things in drawers and behind the desk and even throws his jacket on one particularly large pile of Ancient junk. By the time John comes out of the shower, shuffles to their bed, damp and too pale, their room looks almost habitable – like a place that neither of them has ever lived. Rodney feels the wild urge to reverse everything he's just done, to pull the MREs back out of the trash and scatter them around the room, decorate with cast off boxer shorts and questionable gym socks, but he quells it, holds the blankets back for John instead, tucks them around him as he settles back against their mattress.

"Wow," John says at last.

"Wow?" Rodney repeats, voice too high, rounding the bed as he unfastens his watchstrap.

"I just – " John rubs one eye with the heel of his hand. "I wasn't – "

Rodney struggles out of his t-shirt, briefly getting stuck with his arms crossed over his head and his belly sticking out where anyone – John – can see. "Wasn't?" he prompts, wriggling free, throwing the t-shirt on the floor, and there, that's better. He toes out of his shoes, unbuckles his belt.

"Wasn't sure," John manages. "I'd – be here. Again."

Rodney pauses with his hands on the waistband of his pants, fabric bunched half way down his thighs. "You – "

"They came after me pretty hard."

Rodney winces, stricken. "We looked as hard as we could, I promise you – everywhere, all the time, we had teams on rotation and ran simulations that predicted – "

"No, no." John pushes up on one elbow. "Rodney, I didn't mean – you didn't let me down."

But Rodney's head's spinning. That's _exactly_ what it feels like. "It was just . . . "

"Come here." John pulls back the blankets on the empty side of the bed.

Rodney watches as if the gesture's for someone else.

"Come _here_ ," John says gently.

"Right," Rodney whispers. "Right, of course."

He doesn't exactly remember stepping out of his pants after that, or pulling off his socks, but when he slides into bed he's not wearing either. It's a shock to feel the full length of John's body warm and too-thin against his, and he shivers, blinks, can't look John in the eye.

"Stop thinking," John whispers, sliding his hand to the long curve of Rodney's jaw, and it's a simple instruction to obey once John leans in and kisses him, mouth touching mouth for the first time since –

"Oh god," Rodney murmurs, and his hands mirror John's as they fall back against their pillows, as they wind their limbs and part their lips, as he tastes the warm, vital, living heat of John's mouth, feels the scattershot pressure of his breath against his cheek. "Oh god," he says again as John pulls back with a smile, as John brings their foreheads to rest against one another, as their fingers find each other's and intertwine.

"I missed you," John whispers, and Rodney's heart twists and _hurts_ with the pressure of it.

"Missed you, too," he manages, and rearranges them carefully so that he's pressed to John's back, his nose to John's neck, his chest as a shield to cover John's scars. "Missed you, I missed you," and his whisper's a mantra. He spreads his fingers over John's heart.


End file.
